Prisoner of a Hidden Radio

All the Beautiful Things

2009-11-17T10:14:00.001-08:00

The tickle of the small face – Lane’s face – pressed into John’s back as they lay in bed, avoiding the morning cold; their hands clasped in small consoling knots.

The echoes of Lane’s and his angry voices from the night before playing in loops through John’s mind, louder than anything in the world, as he stares into the mirror, his blood vessels presenting red rivulets of his blood across his freshly shaven jaw.

Branches of frost brachiating like lightning, like blue coral across the windowpane, the quick scent of coffee focusing John’s mind in the dim early morning light of the kitchen.

The fine flakes of snow making wet kisses on John’s face as he leaves the house, turning the key in the lock, and descending the cement steps.

As John turns the key in the ignition, a small cut opens up in his index finger; the sense of freedom – of open roads – that this action once elicited has been supplanted by the knowledge of his routine.

Looking up at the office tower he works in, John feels like he’s falling backwards; the clouds moving overhead give the sense that the tower is falling down. He stands for several minutes and watches it fall.

The coriander coloured scarf that John’s co-worker Bethany takes off when she arrives to work several minutes after John, its pilling wool like the plush, static-electric forest in a Dr. Seuss book.

In the storage room, the musty smell of cluttered junk and the soundproofing layer of dust creates a privacy for John while he fumbles for a box of Bandaids. A mysterious ladybug appears on John’s hand and he pauses to watch it climb the length of his finger, its minute mouthparts working hard to taste the droplet of his exposed blood.

Lane pulling at John’s sweater during some holiday of the past, her lips pushed outwards for a kiss.

For a month, ideas have filled John’s head: Bethany’s smooth arms on the blanket as he lies next to her, listening to the oceanic surf. He knows that if he asks her she’ll say yes. A bead of water peeks over the edge of John’s paper cup and rolls down to soak into his Bandaid.

Bethany’s mouth curling up at the corners, words tumbling out of it and drifting outwards through the office to pollinate the stale air.

The light trickling in through the pull-down blinds in John’s office splashes across his face. From some catacomb in his mind, John recalls a meteor shower on a warm August night, his grandfather towering over him, holding his hand.

As the sun glints off the office towers of Toronto, the sand blows in little eddies on the Mexican coast, and John’s daughter rummages through a crayon box choosing the colour of the sky.

The Ka-Chunk of the stapler someone is using in the next room as John is looking at flight-packages on his computer. All the sound effects John made in his youth to accentuate his imaginary triumphs are lost as he turns towards Bethany and she turns towards him.

Waiting for the car to warm up, the windshield wipers making seashells in the snow on the windshield, John rubs his hands together and looks closely at how large they’ve grown over the years.

The 100 years since his great grandfathers met his great grandmothers, and all the deep and superficial wounds of history.

The coldness of the doorknob on John’s front door and its golden distortions of reality; the blue clouds overhead vibrating with the onset of dusk.

Lane presses her hand into his as they sit at the kitchen table, her conciliatory eyes searching for reparations. The sound of her voice melts John just a little. A piece of paper clasped delicately between her fingers glides down to the table. Lane leans forward in her chair and scans John’s face for his reaction.

A child’s drawing. Chaotic smears of crayon like the neon afterglow of an all-night rave, the textural ribbons of colour like pathways to some exotic pavilion of the mind: John’s daughter burgeoning with a creativity that John himself had lost long ago.

In his study, John sits at his computer and stares at his reflection in the window as it gazes back at him curiously from the blackness outside.

The flashing banners of the Internet, leaving phosphor burns in John’s retinas, promising expensive utopias – vacations to otherworldly locations that exist right here on Earth. The form asks him for the number of travellers he wishes to book, his ring finger curled inwards as, for several moments, his index finger hovers above the number pad, a circle of its red life getting ready to drip.

The fish glittering in the ocean like a meteor shower.

The number 3.

Rubin

2009-11-17T10:05:00.000-08:00

Date: Sept. 12^th, 2009.

It is a day like any other. The great Elm trees, heaving with sap, spew their particulate froth into a sea of sunlight. I’m sitting in an old brick alleyway where the dust jackets of decomposing books flit to and fro in the wind. The past week has been different from the rest of my life. It is something subtle, but I feel I must write about it. A sort of despondency has taken hold.

I’m trying to imagine the chemical miasma that swirls beneath my skin. The emotions eddying there are quite inexplicable. Disbursing like protestors after a demonstration, they’re no longer organized. This decline, though strangely calming, has started a kind of mental gravitation that has displaced me, so that I often can see myself as though at a distance. It is a kind of perceptual misalignment – knowledge of myself as other. That is not even the worst of this despondency; there is a man who visits me.

Date: Sept. 15^th.

Rubin is quite mysterious. I cannot tell if he’s real or not, such are the circumstances around his appearances in my life. I will see him next to me in the booth at a café, his hair slightly greasy and parted down the center, and he will talk to me at length about the minutia of some unpopular medical procedure in medieval times, or give me the full biography of some little-known Elizabethan assassin. What I find disturbing about these interactions is that he seems to know as much about trivialities such as lawn ornaments as he does about the fine, all-encompassing facts of quantum physics and cosmology, and will go on non-differentially about anything he is prompted to talk about, and he does so with such a confusing lack of sequencing or context as to make it virtually impossible to follow his logic. I indulge him because he usually seems very excited at the opportunity to speak. When I get up to go from these meetings and say goodbye to Rubin, he simply stares blankly into space.

Once I saw Rubin having a picnic under golden trees on a long green riverbank – his face contorted in agony like a Boschian nightmare invading a Seurat painting. Like so, he often seems deeply troubled, terrified even, by the most trivial things: a ladybug landing on his coffee spoon, or a gust of wind blowing his hat off in the street. In fact, aside from his knowledgeable diatribes, he does not seem to have much ability to relate to reality: the few times I’ve tried to share anything about myself he gives a polite laugh as though I’m telling a joke he doesn’t really get.

Date: Oct. 1^st.

I can’t believe it was only last night; I feel as though I’ve been up for days. On my way home, the gigantic autumn moon bathing the city streets in silver, I was winding my way along a narrow dirt pathway in the park, only to find Rubin waiting for me part way, standing in his limp corduroy jacket, his arms dangling limply at his sides. Though quite taken aback, I decided that I must act pleasantly surprised.

“Rubin, what are you doing here?” I said.

He started to speak as though his words actually offered the explanation to my question, “The cacti grow tallest in monsoon season,” he then laughed slightly, “I didn’t think it made sense at the time, but I get it now.”

I somehow could not imagine that this encounter was actually happening. Something was deeply wrong with this man. I could think only of getting to bed.

As I tried to sneak past him, Rubin grabbed my arm; his eyes bored holes into mine. His voice raised in a yell, the words came out into the night, “Sally, look into my eyes!”

At that moment a depression gripped me and I could not remember anything I’d learned, or the nature of my personality or the context into which I had been born in this world. It was as if my soul was being stolen. I struggled free, my eyes still locked with his, and his wild, grinning face, and I tore back towards the street.

I turned a corner and ducked into an alcove in the facade of an old jewelry store. Moments later Rubin came stalking around the corner. I saw the blank glint in his dark eyes as I watched him walk off down the street.

Today my breathing is still laboured from mere memory of the chase. My despondency has snapped; fear has awakened my senses.

Date: Nov. ?

I’ve met a girl who claims to be an art conservator. We got together for coffee under the pretence of exchanging notes on the Flemish masters. When she asked if I preferred Breugel to Rubens I replied that I found Rubens’s depictions infinitely more horrifying. Her laugh was like a cicada losing its wings.

I haven’t seen Rubin for weeks now and I can already tell my mind has begun to return to its former indifference.

Date:??

This city is undergoing a process of bifurcation, the buildings splitting and crumbling in the wake of some spontaneous mitosis or fission. There’s nothing I can do about it so I just keep walking. The drains flood away the trash. The heat is picking up again. You can hear the drone of some new insect, climbing through the sap of the trees. In this shimmering afternoon haze, there’s a certain blackness to the air. Like it’s slowly turning to stone. A plague might be coming.

A Great Success

2009-06-22T17:35:00.000-07:00

It was after – my god, didn’t we all die!? – the party (such a stratospheric occasion – I can’t believe it at all!) that we succumbed to the weirdest desires our hearts could imagine. We were all so sex-starved at that time that only something really truly humiliating would make any of us whole again. I seem to recall a cloud made out of animals peering at us from the sky. In fact this memory becomes more and more hazy as I admit to it, and now I don’t seem to remember it at all. We all climbed into a hidden plateau amidst the hills, in a large garden of orange trees. I seem to remember Neptune hanging overhead, casting strange shadows on the rocks. I almost heard myself speaking but the wind began to shake the fronds so placidly overhead, making us shiver by the warm tropical breeze. Here we climbed into a gazebo. We drank and partook of the ongoing humiliating acts until the moon came out and it rained shattered glass upon us. Sheltered by the wet straw in the roof, we gazed out and listened into the downpour. Such decadent music we heard, like the ancient cries of gryphons still echoing across the valley. A toothless creature then crawled onto the gazebo and lay at our feet for a long time. Someone poked it and we decided that it had become quite lifeless. Such were the whims of the gods, were it the case that they were there. After what seemed an even longer time, a girl, forgetfully – no acquaintance of mine– stuck her hand into the thundering shards, mesmerized by the beauty and omnipotence of nature, her hand immediately becoming torn to shreds. Her screams put a shuddering halt to what few depraved and heinous activities had persevered. Soon, from the invisible realm beyond the downpour we began to be surrounded by all sorts of unusual homunculi, hairless and naked. We felt uneasy as they clamoured there, brandishing small implements of uncertain intention. Over the din of the glass we began to hear their ghoulish vocalizations, as we watched the drool escaping between their mean, tiny teeth. Someone squeezed my hand, which despite the occasion brought a long-lost tenderness into my heart – a longed-for moment, which I managed to then savour, if only then. The rest of the time I could barely think for all of the awful things that were happening to me.

Cod is Blooming

2008-04-17T22:48:00.000-07:00

Out in back, where the roots become a jungle, daytime seizures over a field of rivers. Shadows are themselves fish in the water, sparkling under the waves. Pipes lead to newer air in the brook, and at their other end lead nowhere. Clouds are forgeries in the reflection, white with anonymity.

The Story of the Goats, Young and Old.

2008-04-17T22:46:00.000-07:00

One time, these goats were atrot betwixt the greens of the forest, one as tender as real youth, a beauty and truly agile, the other as aloof as the winds of time, having dragged it’s ass for decades and most often found without love, but it knew the art of knowledge and misery.
At the last possible moment, one goat falls in a hole, the other one, perceiving this, gallops to its aid.
“One of us has gone adrift into a hole!” it yelps; the other chortles softly with chagrin. Their gazes dance regretfully upon each other’s faces. The felled thing then quips: “I am of a mind that, quick like this, I’ve come agambol into this hole. So all of a sudden some god or gale has cut my little rudder and shot me by some work of flight into this pit, this hole, and made a gimp of us. My little foot is stuck and by the feeling it gets it’s stuck inside a kind of pond, a lakey sort of thing around it, I’d say.”
Whistling it’s short cry, the other climbs to gain it’s foul bearings, and clambering down all gawk-legged at the sight of their site, recognizing, from within the texts of teaching, the look of the place, announces their singular and mythical position: “My soggy and quite embedded little friend, we two, twiddling amidst the foliage, have crept upon a most deceivingly impertinent legend, laying amix within the drink of colours that is the forest.”
Startled afright with the thought, the other proclaims: “Legend?…Then it’s the house of the Jabberwock into which I’ve plunged, barely remembering the incident, but led here by some time of day to be made fool of and do this final errand of fate at the footstep or doorstool of this freakish and doubtless elaborate devil of yore…misery!”
“Sure, cousin or whatever you are,” replies the one. “It is not this pox of a kind of beast you mention, which I seek to portend.”
“Please then, portend. I entreat you, in this anxious appeal, to say what kismet has befallen us. With your passion and, as my ever-present leg is compromised in the dirt bed, with due haste, what myth then is our lot to whose probable curtain of demise we shall succumb, oh hideously?” His teeth chatter unbecomingly at the premise.
“Oh! It’s not like that at all!” says one of them. “Tales are often told in certain parts of one or two fountains possessing equal and opposite abilities. One brings a goat into his youth with an elixir of folly, the other perpetrates a gathering senility upon the weakened wanderer with a drink of age.”
“You mean youth eternal!? A dram fantastic, to be enraveled in stupid beauty for e’er in the long fortnight of my body. Guffaw, guffawww! But hurry and say which pond it is!”
The two friends momentarily look afraid as a windy and awful silence breaches their meeting. The trees quiver quickeningly in the astonished blackness, one that, during their conversation, has passed overhead, coldly and reticently to awaken the stars.
“No one knows,” says one of them. Another shaft of autumnal silence bearing down leaves and twigs upon the black and grassy floor, fragments of brown death.
The stuck one looks agitated. Even from a distance, peeking over some trough or fallen pine (a place for insects), a beast can see his look of subdued torment…and perhaps does.
“If the spring which thunders at my rear, drowned under this downy earth in which I’m sunk, comes aburble out this hole, this place, uncorked by some undeserving goat’s small leg, necessary leg, then we will see the nature of it’s juices,” the stuck goat cries. “That is, that it will transfigure me, of a sort, into whichever type I am going to be, at least as soon as my bedammed hoof is freed, well I think I could pull it aloft right now, were I at all brave.”
“Yes. It seems we’ve come upon a kind of Schrödinger’s cat situation,” say’s the more fortunate one.
And then, with a gummy crack opening up in his face, laughing, having realized his mistake the other proclaims, “Yes, but never mind which pond I’m in, which goat am I?”
And here we come to the centre of the two small goats dilemma, for neither could tell which of the two goats they were, one young like a flea, the other old as time.
“Say! Trot around for me,” says the entrapped one. “If I am the old one then I have nothing to fear, for I shall either gain the youth which employs the other one of us so electrically, or else stay as I am, decrepit. If at the other end of the stick, I am the young one, then I stay pretty, or am forsaken to scale the heights of monstrosity in my old and loveless age. So do a telling trot for us, and we shall see.”
The other goat does a rapid but flailing little march around the hole a couple of times and cries: “Oh! Of what use is it? Without you trotting there beside me I’ve no method to qualify the type of trot which I do. Whether it’s a little weathered, say, or maybe too vigorous. It depends on your clamped leg to come unwebbed from that mess of earth to do it’s own form of dancing, but here comes our very original problem, back at once, of the leg uncorked from the hole! Nefarious!”
The embedded goat breaks from his trance of capricornian thoughts and condescends to weep in plain view of the other, the muscles of his stringy face condensing to push out diamonds from his eyes. The haunted night creeps soundlessly in the tragic old garden. The forest, an ageless graveyard, with its jaw full of pointed trees, chokes the pair with the crisp and sterile disease of its breath. And things are creeping all around.
“How hammered was I to go aflitter into this milkful marsh, with you no less, and your fluke lures of detriment, plopping me here, entombed in a place I’m really undesirious of.”
“Not so harsh,” says the reassuring goat mildly. “Do you fear age so much as to give up the prospect of youth that has been granted you? You may come out revived, a tall drink of water with bedroom eyes. Perhaps we will even be the same age again one way or the other.”
The deeply rooted goat considers the addiction of youth: enchanting pupils, top incisors, and a perfect forehead; but his face sours quickly once more and he grimaces. He starts again, whimpering cutely, but needlessly, for only one fate confronts him.
The goats continue talking aloud in spurts of elegiac murmur. Their sounds are crimson amid the white and green music of the forest, leading on through the dead branches and undergrowth like a trail of blood, attracting a most formidable predator, a shark of sorts, from his respite within the dense elastic of the webs and saps that makes up his lair. The creature rappels to the dark guts of the moist and leafy ground, moving fluidly and vainly across a stretch of night towards the source of his disharmony.
“Now loose your foot or we shall starve,” says the nobler of the tiny goats, his white fur coming silver and disheveled in the booming light of the moon.
“Perhaps,” says the one goat. “Perhaps you could bring me fare, flakes of this and that to keep me alive, and I will remain fixed in the trench! No type of bog or marsh officer exists to encourage us otherwise. Perhaps the old way is over, you know. Perhaps this perfectly shallow and unpolluted night at hand, and at ear and eye, will continue on to max out our existence. And the present which goes, will become the present which stays instead. Err…if only the dampness near my knees were not so distasteful.”
“No,” says the other, reprehensively. “With the light that will come tonight - the light of morning, as the sun chases it’s ass into the sky, you will be only hungrier, and I will be gone, ideally…only…if it weren’t for that I wouldn’t know which one of us I am.”
“Yes, and how would you operate in society without knowing?” says the keen one. “And you would say what, when other people asked of me, if others there really are?”
“Oh, merely that you had fallen into a bog,” replies the upper one. “But whose home, whose things should I approach when I arrive back? Perhaps I will live your life by mistake.”
“What about me, say?” pipes the little one. “I will remain here until some bog-dwelling mammal comes to root for me, and loses me in its childish embrace of teeth. Oh but when I am freed instead, in what loping style shall I gather speed. What type of velocity will I have to elude the gnashing of its teeth, or else be torn asunder and nudged from my body into space?”
The beasties continue to think, the rivulet of their speech leaking from the gamy wounds of their mouths, soaking the awakening leaves with sound, riddling the forest with words, words going into the nighttime of bark and through woodpecker incisions, befriending insects and scorpions, those which are alive, and ultimately to be consumed by the beast who listens from afar, the words and insects both.
“Well if you haven’t the remains left enabling you to go on with what your life is, then truly I will go and take it for my own, as you fully do not use it yourself!” cries the prancing little goat indignantly.
There is a moment where the challenge dangles in the ebb and flow of the air, like the scent of an emotion at the bottom of a sea, the sediment of his sentiment. The fallen goat considers how horrible it will be for his friend, despite his last callous remark, to return alone to the others, uncertain, and with an ounce of doubt in every verbose exchange, never fully sure of his own verity. The shadows of every structure, once innocuous, will grow newly horrific and spacious to his mind, coaxing him into their claustrophobic quilt of unliving solitude away from the others, until he no longer truly exists at all unless narrowly in one final unconscious centimeter of his own mind, an area of which no one could possibly be aware. And at last neither of them would exist.
He realizes how much all things mean to each other, and how much of that relationship he has missed. That a life of any kind is better than a life without a kind. He wants to apologize for all the time that he has wasted and for all of his lingering. He looks to his friend who floats unremittingly in the blue glaze of that moment, a flock of billowy marine clouds drifts distantly behind him in the dark canyon of sky.
“I…I…” He hears the shame in the broken chord of his voice as it clicks out its word. “I…” The word is being lost, being eaten, and he looks at the moon illuminated in his friend’s glistening eyes, and senses it’s waning presence in the forest.
An owl caws overhead to elicit their attention. Mites well from the ground at the sound of a footstep in the moonlit Precambrian mists. It’s caw echoes again and the Jabberwock appears in the dim wake of the noise, standing tall and hulking. His long mane ripples all the nocturnal colours of the eerie half-light of pre-dawn, no shadow of him has yet formed on the ground.
The beasts in the low little clearing appear gold to him, cast as some sort of ancient part of a frontispiece, like the statues of a temple, two little trinkets with their mouths open. One of them is caught and the other is frozen. He can see the ivory regret and fear enter the near little thing’s face, like a ghost had been let into its body. He touches the closer of the two, warm, not at all cold like metal. He runs his claws through its damp and untarnished fur. He is mesmerized, lingers on it for a moment, on the small damp animal. Then suddenly it is grabbed and in a highly anticipated moment it is cast off into the bog, but it expires or maybe feints while still in the grasp of the huge and magnificent beast, it’s tiny legs galloping on the rise of air that will possibly send it to heaven, a place of rhymeless test.
“Then,” says the beast, one rev of its deep and rolling engine. “Here we go. Your dilemma is at its end.” The captured little beast in the sinkhole remains in shock, eyes wild with the truth of the situation, as it stands in its hunched way just before him. The darkness of the thunder of its voice, penetrating but almost un-hearable, as if it were conducted right into him through the damp ground. It goes on simply. “Now you both are in the well. If he is alive, then you are transformed the same, it not mattering whether in youth or age since you cannot tell, anyways. If he is not, and you manage to somehow free yourself from entrapment, then you wander from whence you came without identity and you are the one returning alone. It does not matter which one of you has survived, nor which one you are, for you have no other in which to consolidate your traits. Perhaps you will find another companion, or perhaps not.”
Then the Jabberwock left in a wake of golden dust and the first cool pink rays of light began to lurch from the horizon. The remaining goat watched as they sparkled down upon the forest floor, flooding old mossy logs and loamy knolls. Pulling anemones and silverfish from their apertures in the forest floor. Fabricating, through refraction, every dewy drop which hung on the blades of grass until at last it reached his spot on the ground.

Or You.

2008-04-17T22:35:00.000-07:00

Introduction

TWO thousand years ago, a conversation of opinion. “Who is?” he asked them by listing some answers they had heard. But then the information looked them in the eye. “But who say that?”
It’s easy to say question. But there comes a point when we must face question elves. Who is?
The answer is a moral –an exemplary passionate age. But the British author who wrote The, the, the Wardrobe insisted such reductions of the able:

I am here to prevent the foolish thing. Him: “I’m ready to teach, but I don’t claim to be.” That is the thing we say. A man was merely a man and a sort of thing, not a great oral ache. He would either be a tic on the man who is a poached egg –or else he would make your ice. Either this man was, and is, a man or something worse. You can shut up, you can spit and kill; or you can fall and call and with any patronizing nonsense be a human. He left that open. He did not.

This question –who is?- is the question and answer. This book answers the most questions. Who is, why what accomplished – and why we should.
If you’ve asked some of these answers -on and on- we invite you to join us. Or you.

Have to die?

Go put forward blood, to be received. This was how his devine bear had passed.
(3:25)

In this love, we have loved that he loved to be the prop.
(4:10)

Curse of the law by becoming a curse.
(3:13)

IF we just would demand to suffer and die. And would be willing to suffer and die. But loving. Therefore willing to meet the demands.
Law demanded, “You shall love with all your, with all your, with all your might.” But love other things more. This is what is –dishonouring by preferring preferences. Therefore, he says, “All and all, short of the of.” (3:23) We glorify what most isn’t.
Therefore sin is small, because it is against a small seriousness of insult with dignity of the insult of the universe infinitely worth respect and loyalty. Therefore failure to love is human.
Since he does not sweep under the rug, he feels a holy wrath. They deserve to be made clear: “For the ages of death.” (6:23) “The soul shall die.” (18:4)
A holy hanging over all would be demeaning, would be upheld. A lie at the core of here, says, “Curse all things written, and do them” (3:10; 27:26)
The love that hangs all humanity is to show matter how it is. Therefore to absorb a bear. “Redeem the curse of becoming us.” (3:13)
This is the word quoted to the removal of a substitute. The substitute substitute just absorbs it and it is, it was not.
Let us not never stand in awe until with the seriousness and the ice of wrath against grace, we waken to suffer death, and say, “This is not that we have loved, but that love is the pit.” (4:10)

Me?

We have rough blood, the forgiven trespasses of grace.
(1:7)

For the world, he gave his only whoever.
(3:16)

One will scarcely die, though perhaps one would even die –but show us that we were still us.
(5:7-8)

THE measure of us is shown by the degree of sacrifice in the penalty of our other degree of unworthiness that we had.
We can measure the words, “He only.” (3:16) We also hear the word is a name based on the title, or, or a term was to conquer and bring peace to the person that was his own, his only king –indeed king. (9:6-7)
We add to the horrific death that becomes the, the, the indescribably great –even infinite you. The distance and the human chose to make us.
The measure of us increases when we consider our unworth. “Perhaps a person would even die –but show us that we still die us.” (5:7-8) We deserve punishment, not.
I heard it said, “Didn’t frogs respond to our value as humans?” This turns on its head, worse off than frogs. They have not not rebelled and with the contempt of being inconsequential, did not die, for frogs aren’t enough. Our debt is so great only I can pay it.
There is only one explanation for us. It is not us. It is “The Of.” (1:7) It is all. It is not a response to the overflow of infinite fact, that is what is in the end: a pass to enthrall, a great what, a supremely forever infinite.

What if I don’t?

Whoever believes he has life; whoever does not shall not see the wrath of remains.
(3:36)

These will go away into men, right into life.
(25:46)

They will suffer the of from the of from the of.
(1:9)

IN our happiest times we want to die, for death rises when we really want those times, not death, but would really love to come again, would like the pain, would like to have back the grave life.
We are ourselves romantic death as the climax of a well loved enemy, cut off from all the wonderful death sweet names, only as the lesser execution delivers the grace in our suffering, is the fulfillment of the end of hope longing the human heart to be.
Go that way. “He has put it into a heart.” (3:11) We are in love. We were made to. And we will. The eternal annihilation is spoke of more than anybody, plain rejecting the eternal, not in literation, but in the of. “Whoever believes he has life does not obey the wrath of remains.” (3:36)
Remains forever said, “Go away.” (25:46) It is reality that shows the infinite indifference or warns, “If your eye causes you to tear it out, better you enter one eye than two eyes into ‘where the worm is not quenched.’” (9:47-48)
So life is not merely life with it’s mix of pain. As the worst outcome of this “life” is the best. It is where all and all will be gone. All that is and in this creation will be moved. All that is –all that will bring- will be purified and intensified.
We will be changed so that we are inconceivable to us. “No eye, nor ear, nor heart…has those.” (2:9) It is every moment now for those who come will see the all-satisfying of. “This is you, the only whom you have.” (17:3) For this, suffer and die. How shall we embrace our treasure?

How Can I Love So Much Evil?

As for you, you meant me, but meant it good.
(50;20)

In this city there were gathered together the whatever, your hand, and your plan, predestined to take place.
(4:27-28)

The.
(29:29)

THE thing we can say about evil is that it turned good. The evil is shrouded in a name. It doesn’t explain why a creature chose to name the mystery “The Of.” As biblical as leaves, question unanswered. The not us, as far as we might go. Rather it says, “The things belong to…” (29:29)
The heart of the…the heart, is not an explanation of where a demonstration enters it and turns it the very opposite –everlasting pointers in the all along the way that it would be like this, sold into Egypt, abandoned for years in Egypt, so that a great famine could save the very ones who summed a word from his others: “As for you, you evil me, mean it.” (50:20) A foreshadowing in order.
Or consider ancestry was the only king the people asked for a human: “No! But there shall be us.” (8:19) Later they confessed, “We have added to ourselves.” (12:19) But was it. From the line he brought the world his origin as he came.
But the most astonishing thing is that evil way of victory over evil, suffering act of treachery and brutality was sinful and evil. But in it says, “Was delivered to death according to the definite plan and foreknowledge.” (2:23) The back on his head, the spit on his bruises on the nails on his hands, in his side, the scorn of the betrayal of the desertion –these were the result, all designed to owe and, along with the people of whatever, your hand had to take place.
There is no greater sin than to hate The Of. There was no great, nor any greater innocence than the innocence of it all. “It was The Of.” (53:10) His evil and suffering was evil and suffering. “With his stripes healed.” (53:5) Is not then the suffering meant to show that there is no evil that cannot bring it? The very suffering that became The Of. “Father, them, they know [what].” (23:34)

Why, God?

Chris also suffered once, the righteous the unrighteous might bring us to.
(3:18)

But now you who once were off, have been brought blood.
(2:13)

I will go to the of.
(43:4)

WHEN all is said and done, God is “news,” is not but news, is like the prisoner of a hidden radio, is only matter. The guards wonder why.
But what is the ultimate news? It ends one thing: himself. All the words lead to him, or are not ample, not news if it only saves, not not news if only doesn’t open, is not news if it liberates us from bondage, but doesn’t bring us to, is not good if it puts us in the family, but not in his arms.
This is crucial. Many people seem to embrace without embracing. There is no evidence that we have a heart just because we escape a perfectly natural desire -a supernatural one doesn’t take a heart, to want the logical removal of the of. All things are without spirit. You don’t need to be born to want things. Want them.
It is not wrong to want them. Indeed it is the evidence that we …we want things because they bring us to the of. This is the greatest thing. “Chris also suffered once for the unrighteous might.” (3:18)
Why is the of good? Because we were made to experience from seeing and savouring our come, from something we are later, created in such a way that is played through our news, that at the cost of life has one thing necessary to enthrall us with us eternally and ever-increasingly.
Long before came the source of lasting. “You make me, there is fullness at your hand forever.” (16:11) Then, he “that might bring us to,” he sent to us the deepest, longest human, then the invitation: Turn from “the fleeting of” (11:25) and come to “forevermore.” Come to.

All This For Me?

I write these things to you who believe in the name that you may know that you have.
(5:13)

Whoever hears my word and believes me. He does not come.
(3:19)

Keep yourselves waiting for the leads.
(1:21)

Go create us.

Bring afar my daughters from the of.
(43:6-7)

Made to magnify –the way telescopes magnify us, to put goodness and and and and ice on display, great display comes deep in that that gets, and we get the created us, most us when we are most him.

Every human should.

So whether you eat or, or whatever you do, do it for the of.
(10:31)

If it is clear that we should live, our first obligation is to be us. This is the essence of being. It is the root of all obedience. (1:4-5)

All of us have failed as we should.

All have a short glory.
(3:23)

What does it mean to “fall short of the of?” It means that none has treasured the way we have not been with and walked in ways sought in other things more valuble than the essence came into the deep as our all-satisfying appalling offence to the of. (2:12-13)

All of us are subject to condemnation.

The wages of death…
(6:23)

We have all belittled the of. How? By referring things. By our gratitude, trust and disobedience in shutting out the of forever. “They will suffer the of of the of.” (1:9)
The word is used twelve times –eleven times by himself. It is a myth, an angry solemn warning who died. We ignore it.
If the here in it is the human condition, we would be doomed to a future. However, this is where it stops…

Go eternal.

Came the world.
(1:15)

The news died like us. And rose physically dead to power the gates. (15:20) This mean guilt, inner and still. “Die for once, for all, right for the unrighteous to bring us.” Coming home all deep and lasting.

The fits chased by the death of long hose, pent and rust.

Believe in the you.
(16:31)

Means to turn from all the means, being satisfied to be us who say “never.” (6:35) We do not earn our merit through free will, if all things do that, creation is accomplished: us and we –fore!

What?

A man ran up and asked, “What?”
(10:17)

Trembling, he fell down and said, “What?” and they said, “You.”
(16:29-30)

-Turn the promises in.

-Call to you. “All who call will be.” (10:13)

-Banking is for you.

-Break the promises in the act of promise.

-Begin reading the can. (1:3-4)

-Find a ship and grow above things. (3:7)

Did you know you?

The with!
(100:2)

Delight in the ill of your heart.
(37:4)

The best news in the world is that there is no God. Be satisfied that you magnify the other.

----------------
You make known to me the of, in you is your right hand.
(16:11)
----------------

Postscript:

Desiring

God, God, God, God, books, CDs, DVDs, children and more.

Red Bandages

2008-04-17T22:34:00.000-07:00

Birds escape from a cocoon of knowledge. Large clots gouged by hooks from the cliff face billowing amber clouds as they rise. Thin red rivulets embroidered with tiny sarcasm wending down from blisters on the flesh wall. A loud fondling last embrace of pigeons, once uncaring, then crushed against the stone carpet. More pigeons, silently nervous, gather round. The red hooks descend again.

The Despicable Findings

2008-04-17T22:27:00.000-07:00

The First Leg

Our carriages set out at the break of day towards the harbour. The crisp air and unwavering pink light had a breathless affect amongst the men. They were pitiless with sleep, and largely engulfed in the choosing of their own hazard. None among our ranks, an odd hundred men or so, had it in their senses to bring up the issue of what we had just embarked upon. Though we heavily expected to survive, we were a predominantly tremulous crew. Never have I seen such resignation already on the faces of men, as I did during this particular morning, right at our onset.
The porridge we ate was of such disgusting viscosity and bitter telluric acidity that the majority of the men were regurgitating before they could finish a bowl of this food. The roads we traveled were rife with anxieties. On several occasions some roots or a branch would be blocking our path, a hurricane having blown through the whole surrounding nation, as I have written about in my previous journal, a mere week before our passage through these parts. Of the five carriages we brought with us, only three made it to the harbour in good condition, one of them having lost its front wheels and having been hitched to the back of another of the carriages. Our best carriage lost one of its wheels irretrievably into a small, low marsh and we spent a day building a new one out of the resinous bark of various of the indigenous tree species.
The forest we traveled through was dense and ungainly, smelling pungently of humid swampy matter and old carcasses. An outbreak of poison ivy made it necessary for several men to be quarantined alone together in the endmost carriage, which was given an additional horse to accommodate the extra weight. The forest was home to the great many number of new animal life, including a variety of cat species and small burrowing animals, the likes of which we have never seen in the old country. In a great victory for the men, a puma-like thing was captured and eaten, tasting very much of a limey sort of ale. It would seem that every element of this new land has endured some form of fermentation making it highly acidic to our tastes. The very air seems sticky and gamy in this region. Thankfully, in not too much despair, we passed beyond the thickest part of this forest and arrived within view of the harbor at Trenchenlocke, which we entered with little fanfare.

How the Gates Had to Be Unlatched and the Vanishing of the Carriages

We had initially hoped to be on our way from this place in decent time, but the men being such that they were already in very poor condition due to the tribulations of the forest, we decided to take an evenings rest and set sail in the morning hour.
The residents of the harbor are an uncomfortable lot. In living so close to the constantly raging mists of the shoreline, their skin has grown very soft and fishy, acquiring a dim hue and musty odor, accompanied by small specks. They welcomed us in dour fashion with little sympathy to our toils. Though we were beseeching of their medical supplies (several men had sustained severe cuts which were at risk of becoming infected), they seemed to accommodate us only very languidly, not comprehending of the urgency of our appeal.
The small village surrounding the wharf was entirely unlit, and though the sun had set, the people of the town seemed to have little trouble in seeing their way through it’s narrow alleys which separated the housing units. Leaving the carriages by the entryway, we were led to a small set of cabins in a clearing at the far end of the village, which is designed like a hedge maze with the entrance and exit ways being built quite close to each other and the rest of the town functioning almost as a loop, never leading anywhere, but thoroughly interconnected with not but a few dead ends that seemed to always end in a well for clean water. The cabins were merely tiny and made poorly out of soft wood and the men set to resting there in such close quarters that they often were forced to overlap.
I had seen myself the way in which the gate to the wharf had been compromised, heavily disused and overgrown with vines. There also appeared to be a locking mechanism at the apex of the central gate. Due to the noncommittal nature of the harbor folk, I resolved to wake myself early before the men had risen and to investigate this lock by myself. By time I woke I had the fortune of being under a full moon, which provided enough light by which to exit the village and make my way, past the sleeping horses, down to the gate. When I arrived to perform my inspection (the lock was comprised of several protruding rods which formed a large face) I heard the gentle whinnying of our horses and turned to see a small horde of the townsfolk aboard our carriages. I was not sure if they had seen me yet or not, so I climbed back towards them silently, sure that they were intending to raid our supplies. To my chagrin I saw that they were not stealing our supplies at all, but loading the carriages with their own supplies, presumably intending to take off with the carriages and forsake us here in the process. When I confronted them they attempted to attack me and simultaneously began to flee. Fortunately dexterity was on my side and I slew several of them in my defense, salvaging one of the carriages from their command. I quickly roused the men and ordered two score of them to follow the escaped caravan into the woods in the one remaining carriage, while I led the remainder of our forces on a defense raid through the village. Astonishingly, the vast majority of the population were already dead and those who weren’t were speechlessly in pain. The fact that this had occurred without it once entering into our awareness suggests that the assault had been incredibly well organized or had taken place very recently before our arrival into the village.
While waiting for the others, fearing that they would not return, lost in the fetid gallows of the forest, we explored the town breaking into the cellars to gather what supplies had not already been taken.
Upon entering the church I saw that the priest there had been hanged. As I explored the church it began to unfold to me what had happened. This once healthy Christian society, after generations of increasingly harsh conditions, had been consumed by creature worship, converting to a primitive set of ideologies based around certain findings. How such widespread heresy can come to pass in a god-fearing society is baffling. To be sure, the subversion was largely gradual and their false deities incorporated into their beliefs only under the most abject circumstances of the soul. Gradually the population had grown more divided, the original Christian sect, as their conditions on the shore improved in recent months, regained their poise and became more distrusting of those who worshiped the creatures, until they were driven to such extremes of repulsion that they slaughtered the deranged souls in their sleep. The irony is that those who had stolen our carriages and whom I had slain were Christians like us, though they were admittedly in a state of mystified uncertainty uncommon in the civilized world.

In the spire of the church I found an enormous skull, like that of a human’s but severely larger in circumference and weight. So astonishing was its state that for a moment I myself could scarcely conceive of a god that would produce such a horror. Then, recognizing the face, I had a man help me bring it back to the encampment in town (such was its weight).
For two days we waited for the others to return. Using the skull, we had opened the wharf gates and discovered the ships already stocked with limited supplies. Presumably the inhabitants of Trenchenlocke had for some reason, likely superstitious, not desired to enter upon these ships, or else had been planning to use them before long.
Though I will never know the entire story of Trenchenlocke, the dates and exact order of the occurrences (as they happened to me) have been written in the accompanying timeline at the back of this transcript.
Eventually the men returned, having saved an additional one of the carriages and its contents, but having let the others go after a brief skirmish. Swiftly, we loaded them all aboard the ships and waited for the evening winds to subside.

Plasma Nematodes

2008-04-17T22:25:00.000-07:00

The Grim Reaper ate Alfred Hitchcock and then ate some candles. And then after some indecision he rides his illness back to his machines. Then eats a butcher’s ice and kisses him on the lips and then ate his lips. Savoring the watery lips in his mouth, the Grim Reaper announces a conundrum in Atlantis: “Reality 92” he says. Then he morphs back through time to his headquarters at the burgess shale and spits the dragons lips out through the night, across the world and they hit him in the back of the head, murdering him. As he fell backwards into the lagoon, the moon loved his palm.
A monkey leaps from a dark plateau.

The Scarf

2008-04-17T22:19:00.000-07:00

The Lychees weren’t the greatest thing. We put them in our mouths and when we swallowed we got sick. When they came out again they were black, little. Wet cloths, factored by the sands of time (an hour-glass and a half). Next the strings came out. Hurting with their full might, down to the glass; right away I noticed the moon coming out. Our left side was beginning to get noticed. Strings are: white cotton, maroon wool, guitar strings, shoe strings, super-strings. The alleyway choked with the gurgle of definite loads of mites, a kind of people small and grey, the snack bar, fragments of glass pull sounds from the dusk, pulled into my ear. Unless seen from above, the fire has been completely absorbed by the usual promise of decay.

The next most promising thing was the platter. One ruffled spoke of meat raised to induce sharp pain of the glass in the mouth. Could have once been a hand with fingernails to incur bleeding. When we weren’t kissing, the blood made pools in the hems and collar of our shirt. From the past we hear the silencing, the killing of the screams of red matter. Here I start to notice the light of the sun shining through on our right.

When the future, which terminated the past at the apex of the present, lay down on heavy feet to die, the past rose to its flames on the envy of it’s having happened. Musty red bricks of heat swell the winds, doing the whistling of the head. Things that are red are: meat raised to the mouth, the place where the burns happened in the past, the heavy feet after certain kinds of death, bricks and the mouth and the hem and collar. The partial disc of the moon is the head of the one that dies after separation.

Trying the drinks was like getting sick. Because the allotment of time was not greater when reversed, the sickening corresponds to the fire, beginning to re-incinerate things from the inside. After the pins are gone, a tiny gap emerges where our left side meets our right. Before the drinks come out, the gap is experienced as being cold. Again the croaking of the little glass lasers of the alleyway, soaring to demise in the bounty of freezing space. Crystallizing like guts, fate (in the reverse sense), and the polished away etcetera. Urge then is admonished at light speed, rebuked and pulverized, gravity damaging the head of the betrayed one, the body pocket opening with the strength of will. When at length it slips back inside us, the sound becomes shady diminuendo; parts of it throng and click off as grasshoppers against the skull wall. Things that are still cold to the touch: 1985, the gap in the forehead, the one in the senses, glass at night, glass in the tongue, the white flesh inside the dark burn circle, the bounty of freezing space, the separation.

When the skin sabotaged by rays turns gold, and the left side turns silver to the moon, the head of the abandoned one turns grey as mites. When rising (as sickness rose), one rose, from the place of burial, rising one body (as a rose), as sulfide strings emerge like sickness from both neck and waist, the burial occurred, the stems of famine rose, having chipped one’s head against alter, boiled down to a scarf, the other was abandoned to life. Rays here are: solar conduits, magnetic, streaming through foliage, like the tone of the lights, x, sting, manta; a body at the end of a loop.

The almonds weren’t that great. Tiny sarcastic inflections, shimmering like cartoon eyes on the roof of our mouth. They blink. Baghdad: empty. Jerusalem: empty. Amsterdam: empty. Antwerp: empty. The great music halls were still cooling. Heat achieved in empathy, cooling with separation, rekindled in nineteen-eighty-six. Joined at the intimacy of the head. Embers relight along the mossy bricks, uncrumbling. Two-fold kissing at the base of the outer head. Springing up from foundation, writ golden by insecticide swarming from the mouth at the cusp which affixes the two lovers, ringing with smoke, like music, into the air, repels moths and the like from spot of mimicry. Down on dust, clapping hand and gurgling at head of monolith, at once burbling with root-sap, splayed legs condone orgy mimic, condemn uterus with compassion. Red and white tattoos on cement of the head, emblems of a fresh plague. Discovered, at once made of wheat and shorn, on rocks in the salt of cliff-face, with the parting of ocean and shore made of red. Reconnaissance fragments in the hatred of dust at the other end of the head falsified into metal. Things that make love are: snails.

Development of reanimated tissues occurs between animals 1 - 25. Penultimate consumption of chalk into orifices already wet with the blood of singing. Stalking down one road toward glassy skeleton after poisoning, us. Sheen of pathway of event, stinging at wet eye under monolith, believing of the left side (untanned) against itself. Aftermath climaxing forwards like cosmological constant, at point in near past on the furniture with damp scrap of darkened child around neck and pulled to corduroy of earth. Brownness of leeches around cold fusion at mouth. And, teeming with cricks, body(ies) stitched into oblivion.

Letter

2008-04-17T21:14:00.000-07:00

In torrents it glows in the london halflife, her tears fall solemnly one at a time, incorporated into the darkness beyond her pillow. I am nowhere nearby, a skeleton of decayed exotic memory, tripping down steps in the lampless courtyard. Thickly listening to the silent room, a dark flower blossoms in her mind, the gown she never wears hangs despondently in the closet, a river of old days.